Smart Ass by Margaret Winslow

Author:Margaret Winslow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: New World Library

One day Caleb and I had just finished a lesson in the big ring and were tracing one last circuit around the far end when a deafening crash sounded right behind us. An industrial-size dumpster loader at the nursery next door had dropped its steel container. The shock alone nearly knocked me from the saddle, but Caleb responded first. All instinct, he leaped into the air and galloped straight toward a solid wood two-foot-high jump, the highest at the farm, one that only a few expert riders attempted. We had never planned to try anything higher than a few inches and definitely not at a gallop. Until that moment, I didn’t even know that donkeys could gallop. One thing I believed I could count on with donkeys was their slowness. In fact, all the books I had read claimed that a frightened donkey doesn’t bolt as horses do.

At that moment, Laura was fifty yards away, unlatching the gate to exit. She turned at the sound of the crash just in time to witness a terrified donkey and rider barreling straight at her. Over Caleb’s thundering hooves, I dimly heard her shout, “Turn, turn! Turn him!” She was too far away to intervene. Besides, what could she do? She knew full well not to step into the path of a speeding animal. She swooped her arms to the right, then to the left, as if directing a renegade jumbo jet. “Turn him!”

Holding both reins in one hand, I pulled with all my strength and leaned far back in the saddle. Nothing.

Obsessed with escape from the metallic bomb blast, Caleb zeroed in on the jump. Oh no! He can’t jump it! He’ll kill himself. He’ll kill both of us!

When Laura saw that I couldn’t budge him from his trajectory, she raised her arms and swung them forward as if to make a swan dive. “Aim for the middle! Line him up. Aim for the middle!” she yelled. And for the first time ever, Caleb did just what she asked.

Then I heard: “Half seat! Half seat! Hold on!”

Half seat, half seat, what the heck is. . .? My mind went blank.

The jump loomed closer, twenty yards, fifteen yards. . .no turning back now, unless, unless, the donkey stopped dead, in which case I would catapult alone over the wooden rail, missile-like, and break my neck. My worst fear come to life.

At this speed, bailing out wasn’t an option.

Ten yards. . .

Oh okay. “Half seat” meant to lean forward like a jockey, grasp the mane, raise the butt slightly off the saddle, and squeeze your thighs like a nutcracker.

Five yards, four, three, two. . .

In a semi–fetal position, I gripped, puckered, clenched, and sucked with muscles I never knew existed, attempting to glue myself to the saddle. Curled into a ball, I closed my eyes as he tilted onto his hind legs and launched himself into the air. We were airborne, but would his hind legs clear the rail? Or would we land hard

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